The Live-In
by ClosetObsession
Summary: This story has been reposted under a new account. "I should get myself a live-in one...it's be so funny." Set after Moriarty's return to the land of the living. He needs a new distraction now that he feels he's defeated Sherlock. A lot of smut but there is a plot. Chapter 9 coming soon!
1. Chapter 1

God, it was Heaven. Or perhaps it was Hell. She couldn't figure it out. It certainly felt divine... The things she was feeling, the things he was doing to her... He was either God or the Devil; there was no middle ground here. She tried to think logically; it had been some time since she'd last been intimate with someone. It was entirely possible she was just excited to be having sex at all and who really cared if it was good sex.

He gripped her hip and slowed his pace marginally. She moaned.

No. _Great_ sex. Not just good. _Great_.

She lifted her head and saw one of his hands gripping the headboard of the bed, the other still firmly planted on her hip. He was panting behind her, groaning quietly every now and again. She wished she could see his face; but he had made it very clear from the start that she was there for one reason and one reason alone. The sex was to be as impersonal as possible. He needed a quick fuck and she was there to provide that to him. She'd undressed in front of him as he told her to, helping along his arousal, then he had grabbed her and spun her around on the bed in the hotel suite, lifted her hips, groped at her breast for good measure just before pushing his way inside of her. Every once in a while he'd shift one of her legs or lean a bit more of his weight to one side to switch things up. But she never saw his face. Granted sometimes that was her fault. She'd shoved her face into the pillow in front of her more than once to stifle a particularly loud moan.

He was good. _God, was he good_. And he was in complete control. He knew - she just knew he knew - when she was close to an orgasm. He'd change the position or pace to something completely different, staving off her pleasure until he was ready. It was so unbelievably frustrating. It was Hell. Definitely Hell.

"Oh, God!" she cried out as he moved both hands to be on her hips. He drove himself into her slow enough that she could feel every inch of him entering and leaving with each thrust. And he pushed deep enough to make her hands clutch the bed sheets.

Heaven. Absolute Heaven.

His panting grew quicker and a little louder. His thrusts more forceful. She came; he finally let her have her moment of bliss. He continued on for a few more minutes, panting, groaning, his grip growing impossibly stronger. She heard his moan, much quieter than hers had been, and felt him come. His hips were still behind her as he caught his breath.

When he backed away her hips fell, exhausted, to the mattress. She rolled slowly to face him. His back was to her as he tied his robe. He turned his face to glance at a clock on the side table; she saw his cheeks were flushed a light pink. She sighed and pushed herself off the bed onto shaky legs and dressed as quickly as she could.

"Can I ask you something?" She asked timidly. Her role was done for the night. She wasn't there to interview him.

He replied by merely looking in her direction as she zipped up her dress.

"Which one are you? James Moriarty or Richard Brook?"

He smirked and sat down on the edge of the bed. His hair was slightly mussed from their activity. He watched her with expressionless eyes.

"You'll never know," he said.

She nodded. "Well, whoever you are, I give my thanks." She gave him a quick smile as she slipped on her heels and coat. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Oh, no. You've done enough," he answered. He already looked bored.

"Have a wonderful rest of your evening, then."

Just outside the hotel room, two men were waiting for her. One gave her a bottle of water and a small pill. A contraceptive. He hadn't worn a condom and she certainly wasn't given the opportunity to insist on one. The man made her open her mouth after she'd swallowed to ensure that she really did ingest it. Apparently they were keen on not giving any woman the chance to claim pregnancy. It was smart, really.

The two men escorted her back to her flat.


	2. Chapter 2

She hadn't told anyone who she had been with that night. Only a handful of upper management knew. If any of the other girls found out there would be all out war. There had been one, a few years back when she had just gotten into things, that had bragged about her night. It hadn't even been with _him_ - just someone to whom he was close. When word got around to the others fights broke out, hair was pulled, nails were broken. She was still new then so she hadn't been dragged into as much as some of the other women. The payout was incredible if one was picked to spend the night so naturally jealously often followed.

And she had scored big. The amount of money she had received the week following her evening with him was more than most people saw in a lifetime. It was certainly more than she ever thought she'd see.

She'd caught the White Whale.

In her three years of being there, she didn't know of another that had been with him. The ones that spoke up were always with other men. She didn't know why they bragged about it. She'd figured it out long ago that if you get picked for another man or woman, you're never picked for him after that. She was certain, though, that she couldn't be the only one. Whoever the others were must be just as smart as she and kept it quiet.

It had been four months since her night with him. Management never spoke of him to her; they knew to be discreet. Even though they knew the amount of her payout, they still kept up the charade that she needed work for money for the sake of her safety around the girls. She was still scheduled nearly every night. She still covered shifts for some of the other girls when they asked.

She thought of buying her way out. Management had brought it up once after her payout. She'd have to nearly give all of it up, though. She couldn't bring herself to do that. Even though she couldn't even fully enjoy her earnings without drawing the suspicion of the others, she loved knowing how much she really had. So she put on a brave face and a flirty, sultry smile every time she went on stage and dealt with it.

* * *

Four months and she'd nearly forgotten what his face looked like. But she saw him that night.

"You're on in five," the night manager barked at her. She turned to the mirror and applied her mascara. "See me when you're done."

On stage she did her dance for the men with bills. She twirled around on the pole and swayed her hips. She crawled on the floor and let the men get a closer look at her body. She hated the song. She threw a glare at the DJ who knew damn well how much she hated it. Some songs were just too disrespectful and degrading of women...she thinks as she takes off her top for the pleasure of the men before her. She wasn't perfect; clearly she had some mixed ideas of feminism and misogyny.

When her time on stage was up, she collected her earnings and her bikini top from the floor. She slipped backstage to stow away the money and don the top again before heading back out to work the crowd but the manager had stopped her before she made it out. Right, he wanted to speak with her.

"I was just coming to find you," she lied.

"You've been called for," he said shortly. Two men appeared behind him. "Grab your coat. He's waiting." He glanced behind him at the men. "And he's apparently impatient."

"I'll just change..." she said slowly.

"Just grab your coat, Miss. We're to take you to him now," one of the men said.

"I'm not even allowed to put on clothes?"

"You'll just be taking them off again anyway," the other man said roughly.

"He seemed to like that part last time," she bit back.

"Just the coat will do," said the first one.

"I'm having someone cover your shift tomorrow," her manager told her.

"You think I'll be gone that long?" she asked incredulously.

"It's just a precaution."

"_Now_, Miss," ordered the rough one. She grabbed her coat before he could pick her up and throw her over his shoulder.

* * *

When one of the men opened the door of the hotel room, she got a clear view of him. He was looking out of the massive windows to the city below, a glass clutched by his fingers at his side. He turned at the sound of the door.

"Did you miss me?" he asked when the door closed.

"Of course I did," she answered. She hoped flattery would help keep the payouts coming.

He was tense. He raised the glass to his lips and finished off the drink.

"You called for me again," she accused. "Why?"

"I had a bad day," he answered. "My options were either homicide or fuck."

She smirked, playing it cool. She knew who he was, what he was capable of. Criminal mastermind, the girls called him. "And how did you decide?"

"I flipped a coin." He was deadpan.

She took a few steps forward and slid her coat off her shoulders; the small, glimmering bikini she wore known to him now. She tossed the coat onto the sofa to her right.

"Why call for me, though?" She continued her strut to him. His eyes remained on hers. "You've already had me. I would have thought you move on."

"Consider it a compliment."

"Oh, I do," she assured him. "What can I do for you this evening?" She ran her hands over the lapels of his suit jacket.

"You've come from work," he said. "Dance for me."

She smiled and pulled him over to the sofa. She glanced around the room until she found what she was looking for; nearly every hotel room had some form of an MP3 player now. She connected her phone and selected a song. She normally couldn't stand to hear the same music played inside the club outside of it; but there were a select few that she liked enough to download.

She slipped off her heels and stood upon the coffee table in front of him; she didn't want to ruin the expensive piece with her tattered and scuffed shoes. She closed her eyes as she began to dance. It was one thing to dance in the dark club with other girls around so the focus isn't entirely on her all at once. It was another to dance alone, in an albeit dimly lit hotel room with the sole pair of eyes glued to her. The music wasn't loud enough to be mind numbing like it was at work. He wouldn't be nearly as distracted now as he would have been with the strobe lights and lasers at the club. So her eyes remained closed for much of the time as she tried to block out as much embarrassment as possible.

At one point, though, her eyes did open. She peeked down at him and saw his eyes following the lines of her body. His eyes flew back up to hers; he reached out a hand, which she took, and pulled her gently down and onto his lap. She straddled his waist and ran her hands up his chest to his neck as she continued to dance to the song. His leaned back and rested his arms on the back of the couch. Her hands continued to roam his torso and occasionally her own body.

She could feel his erection hardening beneath her. She began to move her hips up and down, making sure she rubbed herself against him as much as she could. Her hands ran up his chest again and then she leaned forward to run them along his arms to hands. She grabbed his wrists and brought his palms to her waist. He ran his hands up and down her sides before grabbing her hips and forcing them down in his growing member and rubbing himself against her. She stilled his movements, gaining his attention by running a hand across his cheek and into his hair. She pulled her hand away and reached both behind her to the tie of the bikini top. She pulled the strings and the knot came undone; she pulled the top over her head and tossed it to the side. His hands ran up her sides to just under her breasts where his thumbs roamed up, reaching towards her nipples.

"On your knees," he ordered calmly.

She hesitated for a moment before getting off and kneeling in front of him. Her hands quickly undid his belt and trouser button and zipper. He helped her slide them down his legs so she would have access to him. She would never claim oral was her forte but she wasn't going to argue with him.

Her mouth enveloped him as much as she could. He sank deeper into his seat and sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. She bobbed her head and explored different techniques to find what he liked best. Her index running across the base of his shaft with her tongue lapping hard against the underside of the tip seemed to do the trick. His hands started to twitch before he finally gave in and grabbed at her brunette waves. His groans started coming from a deeper place in his abdomen and his chest was rising higher and higher until he suddenly pulled her head away from him and brought her back up to his lap, somehow managing to yank the bikini bottoms down her legs at the same time. He kicked his pants lower and quickly lost his jacket as she helped him with his tie (black with grey skulls..._remember who you're fucking_) and shirt. He lifted her hips and positioned himself before forcing her down on his length.

He controlled the movements of her hips, even though she was on top. At least she got to watch his face this time. He lifted her up so he was only just inside of her and his eyes glanced down at their joining bodies. She felt as he watched himself disappear inside of her. His eyes rolled back for moment and his lips parted. His eyes snapped open almost as fast as they'd shut and he quickly changed their positions so they were laying lengthwise on the sofa, his body hovering over hers. He lent his head down and kissed her collar bone. It was the first time his lips had touched her skin. His mouth was searing hot as it moved across her chest. His hand reached down to her left knee and yanked it high on his waist. She hummed in satisfaction as he resumed the movement of his hips.

He was the Devil, she decided. He played with her orgasms, keeping them from her until he was ready to give them to her. Pure evil, that one. But if she had to have sex with Satan, she thanked God he was at least good at it.

Another shift of her legs, another deep thrust.

No, he was great. Bloody fantastic.

* * *

**Notice we haven't learned her name yet? Patience. It will come.**


	3. Chapter 3

"You were summoned last night."

She looked up into the mirror, seeing the reflection of one of the other dancers staring at her accusingly. She'd called Management earlier that morning to let them know they didn't need to have her shift covered that night. She had been escorted back to her flat just as she had been four months back after their first time together. There was no mention of him expecting her company tonight and she wanted to keep up appearances with the girls so she came in instead of taking a much needed night off.

"What are you going on about?" she asked, looking back down into her cosmetic bag.

"I saw you leave with two men in dark suits - expensive suits. They dragged you out pretty fast after your dance." The other dancer walked around her chair and sat on top of the vanity counter, facing her directly now. "You were summoned. By who?"

"I wasn't summoned," she denied smoothly.

"Was it _him_? He's back now; he'd be looking for someone new."

"_Him_? You think that if I was summoned - which I wasn't - but if I was, you think I would have been called for _him_? Are you mad?"

"Then what were the two men for?"

She shifted her eyes around the room and lower her voice like she was concerned with who might overhear them. "Look, a few weeks back I had expressed to Management my interest in buying out. They sent those men to talk to me about it."

"You're buying out?" the dancer asked in a scandalous tone.

"Well, no. Not now. I found it how much it would cost and it's a hell of a lot more than I thought. I'd have to be summoned by _him_ just to afford it."

"Why would they send _two_ men to talk to you?" she asked, still unsure of the story being fed to her.

"I don't think they did because only one did the talking. I think the other probably tagged along when he heard where I would be picked up. He probably thought he could get off watching the girls."

"Okay," the other woman nodded. "But know that I've got my eye on you. I'm not entirely convinced that you weren't summoned. And if you were, the only reason you would be hiding it is if it was him." She pushed off the counter and leaned down to her. "Because if you were called for him, you know you'd be on the list of every girl here. He only takes one at a time and for another to be picked, his current would have to be taken care of."

"I'm not with him," she said firmly.

"Good. Because, like I said, if you were, you should be watching your back."

She watched the woman's retreating form in the mirror and shook her head. Some people were so dramatic.

* * *

A hand grabbed her arm suddenly as she walked out of a privacy room following a client after a quick solo performance. She pivoted on the spot to face the body the hand belonged to. Of course it would be him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him. There was so much surprise in her voice that she hoped he hadn't notice the edge of annoyance.

"I just finished a meeting down the street; thought I'd pop in to see how the place was running." His hand released her arm as his eyes roamed the room before landing back on her. "Come on, we're leaving."

"My shift isn't over for another two hours," she reasoned.

"No, it's over now." He nodded to someone behind her. She turned and saw the night manager acknowledging the two of them before moving his focus to something else. And next to the manager was the dancer who had cornered her earlier, glaring at her.

"Shit," she muttered, turning her back quickly on the scrutinizing gaze.

"Disappointed?" he asked with an eery laugh.

"Not at all," she answered, hollow. "I'm just going to collect my things."

"I'll be outside. Don't keep me waiting."

She rushed as fast as she could to grab her coat and other belongings from the back of the house but it wasn't because she was nervous about his patience. She was more concerned that she might be attacked before she could even walk out the door. Mercifully, no one back stage gave her a second look. And no one stopped her as she was leaving but she did notice more than one pair of eyes watching her walk out. Her neck tensed at the thought of how the girls would react to her the next time she saw them.

One of his apparent henchmen opened a car door of a black sedan for her. She slid inside next to him, pulling her coat tighter around her and making sure it covered her legs. This was the second time in two days she'd left work with only her trench to cover her scantly-there apparel. It wasn't something she was too thrilled about.

They were silent in the backseat for much of the ride to the hotel. Finally after fifteen minutes or so, after she'd had a chance to collect herself and come up with a plan on how to deal with the girls, she turned to him curiously.

"You came for me."

He glanced at her, eyebrows pulled together. "Yes," he said slowly. _Obviously_.

"No, I mean _you_ came for me. Why?"

"It was on my way."

She paused, thinking it over. "Still, you could have had him come in to fetch me." She nodded in the driver's direction. "But _you_ came in."

He looked at her again, a small, charming, mildly unsettling smile formed on his lips. His eyes were hooded as he leaned closer to her, his head resting back against the leather seat.

"Does that flatter you?" he asked softly. He reached a hand up to her coat and worked two fingers between the folds, pulling down so that the coat opened up for him to see her lingerie covered breasts.

"Is it normal for you to have one of us more than once or twice? Or am I special?" She smiled and shifted so her body was facing him a but more, allowing her coat to fall open but her body still remain hidden from the driver if he chose to look back.

His eyes still drinking her in, "You're not as special as you might think. Sorry, dear." The backs of his fingers ran lightly over her skin.

"If you keep seeing me like you do, it's going to get harder and harder for me to believe you."

Her voice was husky and low. She wanted him to think she wanted to be special to him. In reality she was hoping her taunting might make him self-conscious enough that he'd send her home for the last time tonight. He could move on to another girl and she could buy her way out before the girls got too violent. She would have to buy out now that they knew. Management would help keep the secret for her but they wouldn't protect her if word got out. She'd seen it happen before.

He pulled away from her and for a moment she thought her plan might have taken effect sooner than she'd anticipated. But that hope was dashed when he pulled his mobile out of his trousers to read a text. He then ignored her for the remaining drive to the hotel as he focused on whatever silent conversation he was having.

They walked alone into the hotel, the driver staying behind and she thought that perhaps tonight would be the first that he didn't have bodyguards; but she was wrong yet again. When the lift opened to the penthouse floor, the same two men as the night before were standing outside his door. He ignored them, stretching his neck as he used a key card to unlock the room.

He continued checking his phone and tapping things onto it as he went to the bar and poured himself a drink. She watched as he set both his glass and his phone down on the bar top and quickly took off his trench coat, hanging it over a nearby armchair, all the while still glancing at his mobile's screen.

She placed her bag on the small console table next to the door but kept her own coat wrapped tightly around her as she walked further into the room. She stopped in front of the massive windows that made up the far wall of the suite.

She heard the click of his phone as he shut off the screen. She glanced at him and saw he was watching her as he took off his suit jacket and tie, laying them just as neatly over his trench. He stalked the short distance toward her then, stopping just before her and turning with her to face the windows.

"Fuck or homicide? Fuck or homicide?" he asked himself quietly.

"Which feels better?" she asked as she looked out to the lights of the glimmering city.

"Depends on who it is I'm with."

She saw his smile out of the corner of her eye and smirked herself at his joke, even if it was morbidly honest.

"I think I'm here to protect the people of this city from you," she joked with him.

"This city maybe... What of the rest of them?"

"I'm sure you have girls in every city you go."

"Is that how you think this works?" he deduced.

He left the window, moving to sit at the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Isn't it?"

She moved to stand before him, helping him with his buttons. He opened her coat to reveal her body to him.

"You've never told me your name," he surmised.

She paused in her efforts of removing his clothing. He didn't already know? How, then,was she chosen for him?

"What's my name matter?" she asked, finally deciding that maybe some anonymity was a good thing with him.

"What am I to call you?"

"You don't. You only come fetch me," she whispered, leaning closer and closer to him.

"Oh, very clever," he teased but accepted as he pulled her down to the bed, hovering over her as his hands moved roughly across her body.

She jerked his shirt further down his shoulders until he was annoyed enough with the material to rip it off, choosing also to take off his undershirt immediately after. Her hands ran across his warm torso as he pulled the lace bottoms down her legs. She toed off her heels and wiggled the flimsy fabric off her legs completely. He stood from the bed and quickly undid the buckle and clasps on his trousers. He separated her legs and pulled her bum closer to the edge of the bed. He pulled off his remaining clothing and then let his hands roam her thighs and lower abdomen. She watched as his member grew impossibly thicker with his arousal at touching her bare skin.

He entered her slowly. It felt like he truly enjoyed torturing her. A sadist in the best possible way. She braced herself a bit with her hands and elbows, allowing her to be able to rock her hips in tune with his. This seemed to catch him by surprise as he gasped quietly and hunched over her, his arms flexed straight in the mattress to hold himself up. She continued her grinding motions until one of his hands gripped her hip so tight she'd swear the bruises had formed instantly. He straightened upright and his thrusts became quicker, harder, but still incredibly precise.

It felt...incredible. She lifted her legs up to wrap them tightly around him.

She had to bite her lip to keep her breathing at a normal decibel. His panting grew louder until she heard him growl. He moved so fast she wasn't entirely positive how he had done it, but next thing she knew her thighs were being held far apart by his hands and his legs were further back from the bed so he was leaning over her at a steeper angle. His hips were driving into her with such force and speed that her brain could hardly comprehend the things happening to her body. His hands moved to support his weight over her so she was free to stretch her limbs even further which seemed to only spur him on.

She came, _hard_. Mercifully he didn't play with her release this time. She gasped and sighed as she came down from it. He was still searching for his so she raised up, her hands pressed flat on the sheet behind her. He hung his head down to her shoulder as he panted. His thrusts slowed slightly.

"You're such a good fuck," she whispered and moaned into his ear.

She reached out her tongue and touched the tip to his lobe before wrapping her lips around it with a slight tug. He let out a deep groan and convulsed over her. She laid back down and watched him gasp, eyes clenched shut, as he came within her.

* * *

Her coat and bra had stayed on so all she needed to gather was the underwear she had kicked somewhere and she was as dressed as she was when they arrived. He stood and pulled on his trousers, still breathing heavily, and walked back over to the bar. He emptied what was left of his drink into his mouth and picked up his phone.

Suddenly he spun, throwing his glass hard against the wall near the telly, shattering it. Whatever he was seeing on his mobile set him on edge. She had flinched at the quick, violent movement she saw in her peripheral and the sound of glass clattering against the wall.

"Get out!" he barked at her. When she remained frozen in shock where she stood, he turned to glare at her. "Now!" he yelled even louder.

She quickly made her way to the door, grabbing her purse on the way out. She couldn't decide what she was more afraid of facing: him seething mad or the girls ready to cut her throat because she was with him.

* * *

**A/N: Let me know what you think of the story so far. Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 4

It had been seven months since she'd last seen him.

* * *

The day after her last night with him she had braced herself for the confrontation with the girls. They were, as expected, relentless.

She hadn't brought anything to the club that had any sort of value to her - tattered, old clothes, her least favourite coat and trainers, and she'd left all jewelry at home - lest it all be picked off by the girls. Still, the moment they had her cornered they started ripping her clothes off, scratching and slapping until she had fallen to the floor where they would then kick her. This went on every day. And one of them always had a knife...

Now, the trouble was, she couldn't just _not_ show up for her shifts. If she did that, she would be considered AWOL. Management would then send enforcers to her flat, her accounts would be drained immediately (because of course they controlled her accounts), and her payouts from her last two nights with _him_ would never be divvied out. And they were cruel. Oh, so cruel. Management was both a girl's biggest asset and worst problem in that business. They would protect her from the men at the club who got a little too aggressive and from the jealous wife (or houseboy - because yes, that had happened once to her) who would occasionally storm in or follow a girl home. But they kept a very close eye outside of the club as well. Want to move into another flat? Get it approved by Management first. Want to rent a car? Management better give the okay. Want to holiday _anywhere_? See Management.

At the end of a night of dancing, the girls were required to bring their tips to the bar where a night manager would collect the money and give each girl a receipt for the amount turned in. That money would eventually be deposited into each respective girl's bank account. But if a girl were clever, and she'd have to be to get away with it, she'd skim a bit off the top - hide a few pounds here and there to fund a small nest egg. Now, she, herself, had a small amount stashed away at her flat for emergency purposes. Girls were only allowed to spend two hundred pounds a day, monitored by Management, of course, and on the off chance something were to happen to her or her flat (and in the back of her mind she thought of a day where she might've run away from it all) she wanted to have a small security cushion for sanity's sake.

Knowing all of this about her blessed and cursed Management had left her only too prepared for the disappointment in them for their complete disregard of her suffering at the hands of the other girls. It was the same routine everyday. She'd show up for her shift, get beat on by the girls, a night manager would see her bruised and bloodied state and send her home. She wouldn't make them money by going on stage looking as she did. But she had to show up. She had to get beaten.

They held her payouts from her for one month and one week. It was much longer than it normally would have taken had the girls not known. They were hoping she'd get tired of the abuse and buy out before they paid her, that way they could just keep it all. She had laid out a storyline for a few of the night managers, hoping they would buy it and she'd get paid sooner rather than later. She would whine, sad and pathetic like, about how she needed the payout to pay off the girls so they'd stop beating her. She acted confused as to why _he_ hadn't called for her again, claiming they had some "special." Surely he wanted to see her again? All of it to make it seem like she way staying with the club. She couldn't leave, she was falling in love with him, or so she was trying to make them believe.

Whether or not the sad sop story she told got her the payouts when she did, she would never know. As soon as they showed up in her account, though, she headed straight over to the club, before any of the other girls had gotten there, and bought herself out. More than half the money was taken away from her. What was remaining was transferred to a separate account she had set up a couple weeks back with her small nest egg in anticipation of the payouts. It was an account they couldn't get their sticky fingers into. It was all electronic and quick. She left that club for the last time.

* * *

It had been seven months since she'd last seen him.

* * *

Her new flat outside the city was much larger than her previous one. She had left the city quickly, gone within a week. She got a small job at a bakery down the street from her new place that didn't pay much but it was mostly just a reason to get out and meet new people. She hadn't lived a normal life...ever, really. Not in her adult life anyway. She thought she'd try it out for a bit.

A few months after she moved she kept seeing a man around the block that she was convinced was following her for a time. She would see him on her sporadically timed runs; he'd walk by the bakery more than once while she was on shift; and she'd see him sitting in a car outside her flat. She was fearful that he was from Management or perhaps even one of _his_ henchmen - he fit the bill; tall, muscular, and bald (they were always bald) - but after watching him more closely, she came to realize he was no one, no one at all. Just a neighbor. She was paranoid, she decided. She needed more new people in her life to forget the ones in her past. It was a slow process, but one she was willing to work on.

* * *

Seven months since she'd last seen him and a pounding knock sounded on her door.

"Yes, hello. Good morning," a man said when she opened it for him.

He was dressed in nearly all black but a dark blue scarf was visible around his neck. His vibrant, impossibly pale eyes roamed her face and person quickly before scanning behind her into her flat.

"Can I help you?" she asked confused.

"You're in danger. We've come to your aid. You're welcome."

He pushed inside and only then did she see another man there as well. Smaller than the other and with blonde hair, he smiled and seemed a bit more cautious about entering her flat unwelcome but did so all the same.

"I'll call the police," she threatened the men.

"No, you won't," the taller man said.

"Won't I?"

"Well you could but then you'd have to explain to them why you're living here under a false name."

She stood, shocked. How could he possibly know that?

"Uh...we don't mean you any harm," the blonde one said.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," the one said with such authority it sounded like she should have known that. "This is John Watson. We're here because someone is looking for you. A man - a very dangerous man."

"Who?" she asked hollowly, although she figured she had a pretty good idea of who it was based off the short description. Who was the most dangerous man she'd ever met?

"The question is: why?" Mr. Holmes ignored her. "_Why_ is he looking for you? What's the reason?" He was pacing around her flat, rummaging through a few drawers and papers on top of tables.

"You could just ask me, Sherlock." The voice came from the doorway. The deep, playful voice she hadn't heard in seven months.

All heads and eyes snapped in his direction. Complete silence greeted him. He smirked and stepped inside.

"It's so good to see you again," he said flatly, addressing Sherlock still. "It does feel like it's been ages, doesn't it?" He roamed around the living area, taking in all her little trinkets and furniture. "I do have to thank you, both of you." He smiled at John. "You found her much faster than any of my men could have."

"You were following us," Sherlock surmised. He grimaced like he thought he should have guessed as much. "The man with the coded note...you planted him."

"Indeed."

"But the code...?" John questioned.

"Well I couldn't make it too easy for you, now could I?"

Sherlock pulled a gun out from behind his back suddenly, pointing it quite steady at him as he weaved his way closer and closer to her.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. We both know you won't kill me." He chuckled and his eyes finally connected with hers.

"Why not?"

"Aren't you curious?" He stood behind her now, his head just peeking over her shoulder, which meant the gun was now aimed at her as well. Her heart rate spiked considerably. "How I faked my death? Why I came back? Who _she_ is?" He placed his hands on her waist. "There's so much you still don't know."

Sherlock's eyes were alight with cautious curiosity. They still seemed to be absorbing so much. John's eyes were darting back and forth between the other three people in the room.

"Let's start with the obvious, then," Sherlock began. "Who is she? Why were you looking for her?"

"Go on, Dear," he said to her. "Tell them."

She remained silent.

He laughed light-heartedly. "She's mad at me." He clapped his hands and came around her. She preferred him where she could see him. "I'm in the dog house, I suppose. I haven't called for quite sometime."

"Oh, how adorable," Sherlock droned. "Jim Moriarty has a _girlfriend_."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he teased. "We'll always have the memory of our gay flirting."

"And our chat on the roof of Bart's where you tried to get me to kill myself.

"Yes, you did manage to get out of that one, didn't you?" He seemed thoughtful as he leafed through a book she had laying on her sofa. "Well, I can't be too upset with you. After all, I lead you to believe I was dead too."

"Yes, and how did you manage that one?" Sherlock asked curiously.

He clapped the book shut and set it back down. "I'm afraid that's a story for another time. The lady and I have somewhere we need to be." He nodded to her. "We'd better be off."

"Will I be coming back?" She finally spoke up.

"Probably not," he admitted. He pulled back his shirt cuff to peek at his watch. "I'll give you three minutes to pack whatever you think you might need. Starting now." At least that meant he wasn't planning on killing her that night.

She made a show of stomping into the kitchen, wrenching open a drawer, and pulling out the largest knife she could find. She held it up to the light, inspecting it, before walking quickly to her bedroom for clothes.

"Isn't she adorable?" he chuckled.

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

She had three minutes to pack her life away. It had taken her so long to find a place for everything she owned in her new flat. She was so proud of the organization. Now she was destroying it.

She quickly packed up all the toiletries she could and moved on to her bedroom; upturning her drawer of intimates into the duffel she was using, grabbing other clothes at random from her armoire and stuffing them in. She pulled a sweatshirt over her head to assure she grabbed one. She glanced for a moment at the jewelry on her vanity, ultimately deciding to leave it all.

When walking out to the living area, she noticed the gun in Sherlock's hand was not being held as stiffly. John shuffled at the sight of her tugging her bag's strap higher on her shoulder.

"You don't have to go with him, you know. He can't make you," he said. "If you come with us, we can keep you safe."

"Can you?" Moriarty asked with a playful smirk. "Could you ever hide her far enough away that I couldn't reach?" He took a few steps toward the center of the room and, consequently, closer to her. Staring straight into her eyes, he smiled. "John, be a dear and help her with her bag."

John walked slowly towards her. "You don't have to do this," he said again, softly.

"Hurry now, we don't have all day."

"Oh, but we haven't heard the story of how you two love birds met," Sherlock mocked.

"Oh, it's a great story. She was working in the lab and was having a little trouble with her computer; I was posing as someone from the IT Department... Oh, wait," he paused, his brow wrinkling and his mouth hanging open slightly. "No, sorry, I'm thinking of our dear friend, Molly Hooper. How is she, by the way?" Sherlock's grip on the gun became clenched once more. "Like I said, things to do, people to see, lives to ruin. We are on a schedule here. Give my best to Detective Inspector Lestrade and dearest Molly."

She thought there would be more of a fuss between the two men and him, but her leaving with him went surprisingly smooth given that Mr. Holmes had a gun pointed at Moriarty's back up until the point they walked outside into public. Moriarty quickly slid into the driver's seat of a black sedan parked on the curb after a quick "Tah!" to the others. And John actually did help her with her bag, placing it in the boot. Sherlock nearly knocked her over as he moved to lean over and stare menacingly at Moriarty through the tinted window before opening the door for her.

"See you around," Sherlock said through the car to him, a slight air of a threat in his voice.

"Try not to miss me too much," Moriarty said with a sly smile.

The door slammed shut and the silence that fell between them (_must be an expensive car - high quality sound-proofing_) made her feel claustrophobic and tense.

At least he was a good driver. Smooth behind the wheel while still moving around slower traffic.

"Who is Molly Hooper?" she asked, finally breaking through the quiet.

He smiled. "An old friend."

"Like me?" she questioned.

"No," he scoffed. "Nothing like you."

"So she wasn't one of your girls?"

He turned to smirk at her before looking back at the road. "Isn't it a social faux pas to talk about exes when starting a new relationship?"

It was her turn to scoff. She rolled her eyes and looked out her window.

"_Relationship_," she muttered. "Is that what you think this is...?"

"And _you_ know better?" he mocked. "When was the last time you were in a relationship?"

Her jaw clenched. Relationships hadn't been allowed by Management. Being kept clean was of upmost importance to them in the event the girls would be called for either him or one of his clients. She had been with Management for nearly four years. Four years sexless. No wonder she was so willing to hop into bed with him.

"So she's your ex?" she asked, realizing his words from a moment ago.

He sighed. "You ask too many questions."

Good. Maybe if she bothered him enough he'd let her go back to her small life.

Or he'd kill her...

"But Sherlock knew her; and he didn't like when you brought her up. Which means you did it on purpose because you knew he wouldn't like it."

He turned to face her as they sat at a red light, smiling.

"You remind me of him," he said.

"Who?"

"Sherlock."

"How?"

He didn't respond. The light turned and he had them weaving around the other cars again.

"Did you sleep with him too?" she teased.

He smiled, looking ahead, still silent.

"Why take me?" she asked softly.

"You talk too much," he reiterated.

"Why come looking for me after all this time?"

"_All_ _this time..._" he chuckled."I've always known where you were." He gave her a long sideways glance. "_Roxy._"

Her stage name. He'd found her out the name she used with Management.

"Or do you prefer _Claire_?"

Her heart jumped to her throat. "That's not my name."

"No, that's the fake name you've been using for the last seven months." He was smirking, pleased with himself. "Roxy was of course easy enough to find out. Claire took a little bit of digging, but no more than a week."

"I thought all that back there with Sherlock was about you using them to find me... You've known where I've been this whole time?" He nodded. "Then what was that all about?"

"That was just a bit of fun. I hadn't seen them in a while; I felt like catching up."

She laughed incredulously. "Why wait until now to fetch me? Why fetch me at all?"

"I've got a question," he said loudly, ignoring her. "Why _Claire?_"

She shrugged. "Why not?"

"Claire Brenham," he repeated the fake name like he was swishing it around on his tongue, like wine. "Who is Claire Brenham?"

"I picked a first and last name of people I knew in primary school."

"Clearly," he mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders like they were tight. He looked disgruntled now, no longer jovial.

"You don't know how to properly create a fake identity," he explained tiredly.

"What do you mean?"

"You want to know why you were so easy to find? You created someone out of thin air. There was no back story, no history. Claire Brenham poofed into existence one day without any rhyme or reason. One day she wasn't there, the next day she was." He looked to her, admonishing. "It was a very thin identity. You wouldn't have lasted much longer with that name."

"You said your men wouldn't have been able to find me," she argued, a bit defensive about her hard work and creativity being degraded.

"No," he whined, shaking his head and furrowing his brow. "If you're going to talk so much, at least listen. I said Sherlock found you faster than my men would have. Which is true. But my men are idiots."

She sat back roughly in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why come for me?" She asked again.

He turned the radio on in lieu of answering her. Loud, classical music filled the car effectively ending any further conversation between the two of them.

* * *

The hotel, which she recognized as the same one she had spent her first night with him, didn't take much longer to get to after he'd turned up the radio. When they arrived at his suite, he quickly changed into a slightly more casual suit and left her there without giving her any rules for her stay. So naturally, she tested her boundaries. The henchmen would let her wander the hotel but not leave its walls. Eventually she settled back into the suite, electing to sleep on the sofa rather than the large, and - if she remembered correctly - ridiculously comfortable bed because she knew that's where he would end up. He still wasn't back by the time she was finally able to close her eyes for sleep.

* * *

She was stirred awake by a hand caressing her inner thigh. Her eyes still heavy, refused to open. She knew who it was, though. She'd be able to recognize his cologne anywhere. The fingers of his other hand danced lightly across her side. A digit entered her and her brain was still so clouded with sleep she merely rolled onto her back, legs falling open to allow him better access to her.

Another finger slipped in. She moaned softly. Her eyes still refused to open. It was oddly erotic, her lids sealed as they were. Her body felt overly sensitive while in such a relaxed state.

The fingers were removed long enough for her pajama shorts to be pulled down her legs. She could hear other clothes rustling and the soft thud of a belt hitting the carpeted floor.

Her limp body was picked up and made to straddle his as he sat back down on her new bed. She held herself upright, eyes still closed. He took off her top and groped at her breasts and sides. He grabbed one of her hands and placed it on his shaft, moving it slowly along the length. She heard his sigh. Her head slumped forward onto his shoulder as she lazily jerked him off.

"Enough," he groaned into her ear.

Her hand was slapped away, her hips lifted and pulled back down onto his positioned member. She hummed in satisfaction.

She was not awake enough for him. She could tell he was growing frustrated with her lack of animation. He flipped them, laying her down on the sofa and climbing over her, thrusting into her smoothly.

It was a short shag. Her orgasm had been very pleasant but exhausting as she was still clinging onto the senselessness of sleep. He left her there when he'd finished, coming back a little while later (maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours). He lifted her body back up to sit and gently pushed a pill in her mouth.

"Drink up, Dear," he cooed in his deep voice. She felt a glass press against her lips. She was meant to swallow whatever he had given her. "We don't want any little ones running around, do we?"

…The customary contraceptive pill…

Her thighs tingled from her orgasm. A thought occurred to her as she reached for the spare blanket she had called for from housekeeping: this was why she was there. This was why he had come for her. She was to be used for her body. She was a release for him.

Just as innocently as the thought entered her mind, it vanished as she drifted off to sleep once more.

* * *

**Please review and let me know what you think!**

**I've gone back and re-edited the previous chapters. Nothing really changed as far as the story goes…it was mainly me wanting to fix some grammatical errors and minor parts to make everything make a little more sense.**

**Now go review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you to those reviewing and following this story. Please keep the support and any constructive criticism coming!**

* * *

She jerked awake once her sleep addled brain registered that she wasn't in her normal surroundings. She bolted upright from the sofa, noting immediately that she was nude. The slight tingle between her thighs reminded her of the sex she had been woken up for in the night.

There was a soft clinking of a cup against a saucer; she turned her head toward it. He was sitting at the small bistro table in the suite, a cart was next to him with morning pastries and juices and fixings for coffee. His attention was on a newspaper in front of him. A pen was held in his left hand, poised above a yellow legal pad on the table.

She stood and quickly made her way to the loo where a bathrobe provided by the hotel was hanging. Donning it, she made her way to the table and sat across from him, uncomfortable.

He made a note on the paper. She tried to see what it was but he used a cryptic shorthand that she couldn't decipher.

"Coffee will be cold," he drawled.

"Why did you take me here?" she asked.

She knew. She'd figured it out last night. She was a body for him to use. She still wanted to hear him say it - to confirm it.

"There's toast, too," he said, absent-mindedly.

She slumped back in the small chair and looked out at the grey morning sky. He folded the paper and took another sip of his coffee.

"We'll be leaving in a couple of hours," he informed her. "Have all your things gathered." He lifted the small kettle off the tray. "Coffee?"

"I don't drink it," she answered with a shake of her head. "Where are we going?"

He ignored her again. He was freshly showered; his hair slicked back and his face clean shaven. He was also in a robe though it appeared to be his personal housecoat.

"So did you just miss me?" she asked mockingly.

"Oh, yes. Terribly," he replied with heavy sarcasm.

"Well you must've," she deduced. She hoped her self-confident tone would get a rise out of him. "Otherwise you would have just moved on to another girl rather than track me down."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I haven't been with other women." He stood, straightened his robe and smoothed his hand over his hair while looking out the window. "It's been seven months and I am no saint." He smiled thinly at her before turning to leave. "I'm going out for a bit. You'll need to be ready to leave in an hour."

She stayed at the table while he dressed and then left the room. After nibbling at a piece of toast, she decided a shower would be a nice way to pass the time. Afterwards, she went through her duffel to sort and organize the clothes she had haphazardly packed and laid out a casual outfit for the day consisting of jeans and white shirt.

She was ready to leave with five minutes to spare. She'd noticed all of his things were already gone. He'd only left behind the morning newspaper. She skimmed over the front page briefly - _Prime Minister Discusses Country's Relationship with Russia; Billionaire Business Tycoon Accused of Fraud; Prince Harry's at It Again!._

She placed the paper back down and went to grab her coat out of the closet. When she folded the heavy fabric over her arm, she felt something heavy in the pocket hit her leg. Confused, she reached inside and found an old flip phone, the kind that one could buy for cheap at a drug store or street corner vendor. She glanced at her bag where her mobile was sitting and then stared back down at the unfamiliar phone in her hand. She flipped it open and found there were five text messages unread.

_I slipped the phone into your pocket before you got in the car with him. It would be mutually beneficial for us to stay in touch. I will need you to update me on his location whenever possible and in return, shall you ever need it, I will get you out of your current situation._

_SH_

Sherlock Holmes. She remembered him knocking into her just before leaving with him; that must have been when he planted it. Sneaky bastard. Over the span of ten hours he had sent all the unread messages.

_Do we have a deal?_, she read.

_Hello? Has he killed you already?_

_Honestly, I put the phone in your coat pocket. It's not _that_ difficult to find_.

_Have you_ still _not found the phone?_

The last text was three hours ago. She sat on the sofa next to her bag and contemplated the opportunity placed before her. Her life thus far was not one of a law-abiding citizen. It certainly wasn't the life her mother had dreamt of for her. She'd always been a little bit of a rebel and that had gotten her in more trouble than she would have really like over the years but even when she was with Management she felt like things had turned out alright. She was alive and now she even had a pinch more money to her name than she ever had before. Bottom line was she'd never been on the side of the police. Why should she start now?

What would informing on him do for her? It would put her in great risk. She was sure he wouldn't just be okay with it if she was ever found out. He was a dangerous man. He could kill her. He probably will even without her giving him a reason. What will he do with her when he gets bored? Or when he decides he's ready to move on to the next willing woman?

Perhaps it truly was in her best interest to help Sherlock. If he was willing to keep up his side of things - getting her out if the need arrived - she might need him to save her life one day.

There was a hard knock on the door, and she quickly shut off the phone and stashed it in her bag before answering. She hoped she didn't look guilty. It was one of his bald guards that frequently stood watch.

"Ready?" he asked in a hard and impatient tone.

"Yes," she answered. She turned to grab her bag but he shoved in past her and beat her to it.

"We're late," he said gruffly in explanation.

"I've been ready."

It was the wrong thing to say. He glared at her as he walked out to the hall. She followed behind.

She was escorted out of the city to an airfield. The car pulled up to a large hangar with three jets parked inside. There were a handful of people inspecting the one in the middle. The driver parked and grabbed her bag from the back, carrying it to the plane. She saw Moriarty appear in the open doorway of the middle jet.

"You're late," he accused.

She wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or the henchman.

"Sorry, sir. Traffic was terrible around the hotel," the man lied.

He rolled his eyes and moved aside so the man could carry her bag up the small flight of stairs and place it inside.

"Are all these yours?" she asked, amazed. She was still on the ground, spinning around to look at the planes and the hangar.

"Of course not. I only borrow them when I need to. They're far too much to maintain."

"I bet it'd be nice, though," she said, "being able to fly where ever you want whenever you want to."

"Darling, I do that anyway."

She turned to look up at him, as she stood at the bottom of the stairs. He was leaning forward, his hands grasping either side of the railing.

"So who do they belong to?"

"A government man who likes to get his hands dirty." He smirked.

The henchman appeared behind him and he moved so the man could exit the plane.

"Come on, now," he said with a quick wave to her, impatient. "We'll want to get there before dark."

"And where are we going?" She climbed the stairs. "You still haven't told me."

When she reached him, he stepped away to give her space but it was decidedly _less _space than what he had given his bodyguard. She could feel the heat coming from his body and his cologne invaded her senses.

"Why were you late?" he asked. He liked to ignore her questions, she decided.

"Your men are slow," she said quietly.

His gaze hardened as he looked down to the man getting back in the car.

* * *

They were silent for much of the flight. He sat across from her in a large leather seat, staring at his phone and sipping a glass of scotch. She had declined his offer of a drink which she noticed he had taken a slight offense to though he hadn't said anything in response.

She had been sitting with her eyes closed, head leaned back against her seat when she felt the cabin pressure change as the plane began its descent. Her eyes popped open and she leaned forward to look out the window. She laughed at the view.

"God, you must really like me," she teased.

"Hm?" he hummed, still not looking up from his mobile.

Her eyes roamed over the skyline, taking in the jutting structure of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. "You should be more careful." She sat back again, intently staring at him with mocking eyes. "You'll give a girl the wrong idea bringing her to Paris."

His eyes flickered up to hers. "Yes, you're oh so special, Darling. Shall I give you your ring now? Skip the romantic dinner for the proposal?" he said sarcastically.

"You know, if you're sick of me already I'll happily find my own way back to England."

_Say yes._ She was far too hopeful.

* * *

After the smooth landing, she gathered her bag from the back of the jet and disembarked. They were met on the tarmac with a dark blue BMW with a young driver. The young man fluttered around her and stuttered when he spoke to them. She smiled and thanked him when he took her bag for her; he smiled shyly and flushed. She noticed Moriarty roll his eyes.

They were driven into the heart of the city. She'd never been and found herself straining her neck to see every inch she could. They stopped outside of a high-end shop with a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower. She may have paused to ogle at it much to Moriarty's chagrin. He clutched her elbow and dragged her inside the store.

An elderly woman was instantly in front of them. He spoke to her in quick French. It was obvious the woman knew him and knew his reputation by her behavior. She looked at him with such reverence and appeared to be making a very conscious effort of pleasing him. She offered him bottled water and also had tea ready if he preferred. He declined.

"I have a meeting to run to," he said, finally turning to her. He only spared her face a quick glance to make sure she was paying attention to him before he pulled out his phone. "They'll take care of you. I'll pick you up in an hour."

"Wait," she called after him as he turned to leave. "What am I doing here, exactly?"

He ignored her - naturally - and continued walking out.

She was ushered to a small pedestal and two more younger women came from around the shop with measuring tapes and notepads, poking and prodding. They tried speaking to her but her French was very rusty and they spoke so fast.

"Uh, parlez-vous anglais?" she asked nervously.

The three women shared a look and continued speaking to one another in their native language, leaving her completely lost. They took her measurements and held up various fabrics in many different colours up to her face, talking animatedly the entire time.

She thought of the movie _Pretty Woman _and laughed at the current parallels of her life with that of Julia Roberts' character.

When Moriarty came back, she was seated on a small, white leather chaise. The women had long since finished with her and had left her to wander the store. She thought about leaving and taking a stroll up the street but she noticed a man standing stoically in a dark suit just outside the store and figured that was her babysitter.

"Monsieur," the older woman greeted him quickly. "We have some fabulous new pieces in that I think you would like," she said, heavily accented.

_Practically perfect English, though_, she noticed snidely.

The woman brought him to a glass counter and pulled out three timepieces for him to inspect. He turned around in the room, finally seeing her and jerked his head, wanting her to accompany him.

"Which one do you like?" he asked her curiously.

She looked down at the watches displayed and felt like she was being tested. Not sure what game he could be playing, though, she merely picked one, not particularly caring.

He picked up the black fine leather band she had pointed to with the dark grey face and fastened it to his wrist.

"Excellent choice," the woman enthused.

"And for her?" he asked, almost bored.

Her brows shot up as she looked to him. _For her? _The woman behind the counter seemed as equally taken aback though she recovered far quicker. She motioned to farther down the counter and picked out another two watches from the display. He picked up the one on the right almost immediately, inspecting the light beige leather band with a mother of pearl face. He grabbed her left wrist and latched the watch into place.

He spoke a quick French order to the older woman before guiding them out of the store and ushering her inside the BMW.

"What was that about?" she asked.

"Keeping you busy," he said shortly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tight.

"Are you okay?"

He grunted in response and the car took off.

"Did we just steal watches?" she asked slowly.

"Don't you ever _shut up?_" he snapped.

She kept her mouth closed for the reminder if their short ride as he obviously wished.

They pulled in front of a large hotel where they were greeted by the staff as they exited the vehicle.

"Monsieur," a man greeted. She judged by his pinstripe suit and how all the other men - though still dressed impeccably - moved around him, that he was the one in charge. "It is so wonderful to see you again. Your usual suite is prepared for you."

She was finding him fascinating to watch as he dealt with other people. He constantly looked bored and yet always in a hurry and it gave him the air of being superior to everyone around him. His game of ignoring her questions made it obvious he felt _she_ was beneath him; but to be fair he had been paying her for sex so really she had been at his mercy.

The man handed him a black leather bound folder. And ushered him inside. She followed behind, ignored. She was beginning to see a pattern.

The suite was massive and lovely. The Eiffel Tower could be seen through the bedroom window and if one were to step out on the terrace in the living room. She gasped at the view and hoped she would be staying there for a while.

It was getting late and they were both exhausted from the travel. He quickly showered and fell into the large bed. She decided to soak in a nice bath instead before turning in to the plush sofa. She half expected him to call her to bed for a quick tussle but when she came out of the bath, the lamps of the bedroom were off. The yellow light from behind her shown upon his nearly nude form already fast asleep.

* * *

The next morning after a quiet breakfast on the terrace she received yet another surprise from him. Her new watch glittered in the morning sun as he rose to answer the door. She looked inside the room and watched as a bellhop wheeled in a cart lined with garment bags. Moriarty turned to her, snapped his fingers once and waved for her to come to him.

"These are all yours," he said flatly. "You'll wear..." he peeked through a few of the bags, "this one tonight." He placed the garment bag he had chosen in front of all the others. "I'll be going out for the day. Be downstairs at six-thirty."

She was shocked silent as she took in all the new clothes. He walked away to dress for his day.

"What's tonight?" she called when she could hear him shuffling about behind her. He didn't answer her immediately.

"Something special," he whispered closed to her ear. She jumped, not knowing he had crept up to her.

She spun around quickly. He looked like a completely different person when he wasn't in a suit. Jeans and plain shirt with a black jacket made him look nearly normal. It might have been the manic glint in his eye or simply her being familiar with him that kept her from totally believing the facade.

"Going sight-seeing?" she asked skeptical.

"Something like that."

He smiled lazily and stayed far too close to her than what was comfortable.

"You know, I've never had the chance to walk around this city before," she said cautiously. "Am I going to be able to leave at all today to have a look around?"

His eyes raked down her housecoat clad body.

"No," he answered slowly. His hands went to her waist and untied the robe to reveal her pajama shorts and tank top. "I think it's best you stay here."

She thought maybe he was worried she would run away. And then she wondered why she wasn't trying harder to do just that.

"I'd better be off," he muttered even as his hands began to roam across her hips and waist.

"Why don't I go with you then?" she asked desperately, not wanting to be stuck in a hotel room again.

His hands fell immediately at her words. His look hardened and he moved past her with a short "No." He left very quickly after that.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Please review! I would love to hear what you think about this. Constructive criticism is super helpful as a writer.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much for all your encouraging reviews. Please continue to share your thoughts on the story as we move forward. I hope you all enjoy this next installment.**

* * *

As it turns out, there is only so many times girl can look through new clothes. After trying on the fifth outfit, she moved on to another activity – sitting on the terrace, watching the clouds pass by the Tower. It was a lovely day. And really she would have been perfectly happy to just sit out all day if it weren't for the nagging thought that perhaps she should text Sherlock.

She grabbed the phone out of her bag and let it weigh in her hand. She wasn't sure how Sherlock figured he could trust her to be honest. She didn't know him. He didn't know her. She could be telling him any city under the sun. How would he know if it were the truth? She looked around the room, unseeing.

She buried the phone back in her bag and left the room in a rush. She was surprised to see that no one was standing watch outside the door. She made her way to the hotel's business centre deciding she needed more information before she could really figure out what she should do.

She fired up one of the computers and clicked the search engine icon. After quickly punching _Sherlock Holmes_ into the keyboard, article titles filled up the screen about the detective. His name had rung a bell when he told her in her flat. She still couldn't place where she had heard it but she assumed that it must have just been through the gossip. He appeared to be highly admired by many.

_Hat Detective Has Done it Again!_

_DI Lestrade: "We Couldn't Have Done It Without Him."_

_Cheek Bones and Wit: How Sherlock Holmes Works His Magic_

_Sherlock Holmes ALIVE!_

_Holmes and Watson: The Dynamic Duo_

She clicked on one of the titles and began reading up on this famous detective. A lot of the articles mentioned his "resurrection." He had faked his death three years ago though the facts of _how_ he'd done it still weren't clear. Jumping off the roof of a hospital and surviving was something of a feat. It was in reading through his apparent suicide that Moriarty's name started to appear in reference to him being Sherlock's foe.

She _had_ heard of _him_, of course, well before their first meeting. He was the figurehead in Management. The one man to be feared above all others and the ultimate goal for each of the girls to strive towards. The things she had learned about him were gathered mostly through eavesdropping; though once his name was used as a means to scare her. She had gotten a little mouthy with one of the night managers and he had threatened to send her to him for punishment. He never did, obviously. Actually, the first night she was called for by Moriarty she thought maybe it _was_ for punishment. She had been so nervous until he started giving her the rules for sleeping with him - keep it impersonal; kissing need not be involved; "You're replaceable."

No kissing. How many times had she slept with him now – four? They've still never kissed on the lips.

There had been talk about him being dead, she could remember. That was also around the time the name Richard Brook was being thrown about. A couple of the girls had questioned his identity quite a bit, often wondering which one he really was. She'd also heard one of the managers mention the Brook name with an amazed laugh and something about him being a genius.

She wasn't so concerned with reading about his exploits, however. She was sure that whatever she would find would only upset her. Ignorance is bliss, after all. She knew he was a madman. She knew he killed people and ran a massive criminal organization. She didn't need all the gory details. She was more concerned with learning about Sherlock Holmes, and specifically if he was really as good as the articles were claiming. If he was, there was a definite chance that texting him Moriarty's location may well be worth it.

* * *

The tight black dress he told her to wear made her feel ridiculous. Just by looking at it one could tell how expensive it was. She guessed it was probably the priciest bit of clothing she'd ever worn. The black heels she paired with the dress were also of a particularly high quality. She finished putting on her makeup before standing back to take a proper look at her reflection. She hardly recognized herself.

What was left of her payouts after buying out from Management hadn't been spent on anything as frivolous as clothing. She had splurged once on a necklace which held a single pearl on the white gold strand, but that had really been it. The money helped pay for her bills when the bakery's pay came up short (and that happened a lot, actually). Mostly, she had been trying to save it as much as she could. She was looking around for a small cottage or something of the sort. She thought she had found the perfect one but that was only a week ago now. Going with Moriarty put a bit of a damper on that dream for the moment.

So looking at herself in the mirror – hair done up and makeup – in such fine attire made her feel self-conscious.

She started when the suite's phone gave a shrill ring.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Bonsoir," the voice on the other line greeted. "Monsieur Moriarty asked me to phone your suite and let you know that he is waiting for you in our lobby."

"Merci," she replied. "Please let him know I'll be right down."

He was still in the plain clothes she had seen him in earlier. She wasn't sure why she was expecting him to have changed since he hadn't come back to the suite.

His eyes raked their way down her body and the self-satisfied smirk he wore made her grate her teeth.

"Well, I feel over dressed," she said flatly.

"Don't be silly; it suits you." He turned and began walking to the hotel's entrance doors.

_That was a compliment_, she realized; an actual, genuine compliment. Well, sort of. He didn't come right out and tell her that she looked nice in so many words but that was the best compliment he'd given her since he called for her for a second time with Management.

He brought her to a small café where he ordered dinner for the both of them. It was a quick meal ate in silence. The only words spoken were by her when she thanked him for paying. It occurred to her after his short, confused glance at her that it was probably a very strange thing to say given their current relationship, even if it had been a polite gesture on his part.

He then took her to the Eiffel Tower. _The Eiffel Tower_. _He_ brought her. She found herself having very mixed feelings about him at that moment.

She stood amazed on the observation deck as she looked out to the glimmering city around them.

"Wow," she gasped.

She walked the perimeter, knowing her eyes were humourously wide as she took in every bit of dazzling lights that she could. He followed a few yards behind her at a slow pace. She got the feeling he was not nearly as enraptured by the view as she was. Eventually she found a spot she liked, stopped her stalking around and simply looked out at the massive expanse of the city before her.

"I can take you all over the world," he said, his voice quiet though very deep, from behind her. His hands came to rest on the railing on either side of her. "You can see all this planet has to offer."

"And what am I to do in return for this kindness?" she asked shortly.

He chuckled and she felt his nose, cold, brush against the right side of her face just in front of her ear.

"I think you know," he whispered.

Her gaze hardened. He was ruining this moment for her.

"You'll need to be a distraction for me," he continued. "Keep me entertained." He pulled himself forward, pressing his body against her back. "_Satisfy me._ Do that and you can have whatever you want."

"If I were to decline?"

"You won't," he said, so sure. "You came with me without so much of a threat. You want this, too. You crave this sort of excitement."

Her mind was reeling.

"Excitement?" she guffawed. "You keep me locked up in hotels."

"They're hardly dungeons," he argued.

"You say you'll take me anywhere but what's the point if the only bits of wherever we go I get to see are when we drive back and forth to the airport?"

"Have I not brought you here?" he asked, now obviously annoyed. "Can you not see more now than you were able to before?" His hand gestured out in front of her to all the bright buildings.

She bit her cheek to hold back her words. How could he –? What was he –? Why would she –? She took a deep, calming breath.

"Do I even have a choice?" she asked quietly.

He didn't answer. And that told her a lot. Her breathing became slightly heavier and her vision became blurry.

_Tears? No, don't cry. It wouldn't do any good. You're stronger than this. You've been through worse. Sex and travel; that's not so bad, is it?_

She pictured the little cottage she had found. It had a private lake on a large piece of land. She could have been very happy there. Life would have been simpler. She could have learned to garden, maybe have gotten a dog or something. It would have been quiet and at night she would have been able to see the stars.

She looked up at the night sky, unable to see any of stars in the luminescent city. His hands pulled away from the rails and she felt the heat of his body dissipate. She thought he might be waiting for her to say something, but she turned and saw he was watching a man approaching them with a small briefcase. The man was familiar to her somehow but she could remember from where. She was sure she'd seen him before.

The man stood before them, obviously nervous. His shifting eyes took in everyone on the deck and paused when they turned on her.

"She's fine," Moriarty said dismissively. He pulled something from inside his jacket. It was a thick envelope and what looked to be a car key.

"I didn't think it would be you," the man said to him. She noticed his English accent. "I thought you would send someone."

"I wanted to make sure this went smoothly," he said with a large charming smile. His manic eyes glinted in the light. She could tell he was lying somehow. "You'll be late if you don't leave now. And I don't give refunds."

"Yes, of course," the man said. He tried to hand Moriarty the briefcase but he wouldn't touch it.

"Put it down by her," he ordered.

The man stumbled to quickly place the item at her feet. He spared her another quick glance.

"Is this your wife?" he asked.

"Don't make small talk," Moriarty groaned.

He handed the envelope and key over and the man quickly stuffed them inside his jacket packet.

"Enjoy," Moriarty said brightly. His smile faded almost immediately as the man nodded and walked off.

He turned back to her and grabbed the briefcase. He clicked open the locks and lifted the lid to show a handful of folders, a bound stack of Euros and a bag of licorice. He grabbed the bag of candy, sighing as he closed the briefcase again and set it on the ground. He opened the licorice and offered her the bag; she meant to grab only one but ended up with two stuck together. She pulled the pieces apart and handed one to him. He leaned his forearms on the railing looked before him, finally seeming to take in the view.

"People will do anything if you make a few promises," he said. He actually sounded disappointed about it. "I had a grown man pack candy in a case for another grown man." It might have been the sort of thing someone would chuckle about, but he looked too deep in thought. "People are predictable. They're boring."

"You're people," she remarked.

"I'm not like them. I'm an exception. Sherlock's an exception –" She fidgeted with the candy in her hand at the mention of that name – "or he was. Now he's a nuisance."

"Why me?" she asked, desperate to turn the conversation away from the consulting detective. "You've got loads of women to choose from; why pick me?"

He stood up straight and turned to her. A small smile formed on his lips and his black eyes appeared to soften. He could be devastatingly charming. He could have won awards for his acting. He reached a hand up to cup her cheek briefly and then stroked it once. He ran his fingers through her dark hair to place strands behind her ear. He licked his lips.

They'd never kissed. She'd known him for over a year and they'd had sex four times. They hadn't kissed yet. And that was all she could think in that moment and she hated herself for it.

"You do as you're told," he answered.

Well, nothing like an asinine comment to bring one back to reality.

She sputtered at the gall of him.

"_That's_ why you picked me?"

"It's not a bad thing," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. He turned back to face the city.

"You're calling me spineless! I'm supposed to take that as a compliment?"

He started chuckling softly. "It's the quality I look for."

She gaped at him. "God, you're unbearable."

"Come on, now," he said as he turned to leave. "Business is done. Time to go."

Their young driver was waiting for them at the road. He held the door open for her and managed to stutter out a soft "very lovely" with a nod to her as got in.

"Thanks," she grumbled, still annoyed at Moriarty's words.

"Down, boy," Moriarty warned.

"I-I meant no disrespect," the driver said quickly.

In the back seat he shifted closer to her. She remained with her head turned in the opposite direction so as to ignore him. He brushed her hair aside and she felt his lips press against her neck, peppering small kisses across her skin. Her stare flickered to the eyes watching them in the rearview mirror. The driver blushed to his ears and diverted his gaze quickly back to the street. She swatted her hand to get his face away from hers.

"I'm mad at you," she said in simple explanation.

He sat back. "Are you saying no to me?" he asked with humour.

"For the moment."

"No matter." He leaned toward her again and lowered his voice. "I'll have you moaning 'yes' later."

"You can try," she taunted.

He was playing a game of control. Obviously he was currently winning. There was only so much she could do to even out the playing field. Refusing him in the car was start. The fact that he actually did stop was a good sign. He wasn't a complete arse, then – only a murdering psychopath.

She turned to face him, an idea forming. He was still close; his left arm was draped across the back of the seat behind her, his body turned towards her. His left thigh was flush with her right. And he was smirking at her like he'd gotten her to cave into him by just looking at him.

"You picked me," she said softly.

His tongue flicked out to wet his lips; it drew her gaze. She made it obvious. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, pretending to think.

"Does that mean...?" She trailed off and lifted her right hand to capture his jacket at his chest. She tugged on it, letting him know she wanted him close. "I'm special to you," she determined. There might have been a slight tone of mocking.

He continued to smirk. His throat vibrated with a quiet chuckle. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Darling."

His eyes darted to her lips. She had him. She felt the immediate sense of accomplishment at his single look. She could get him to kiss her. The man who told her to keep things impersonal and not to bother kissing him...she would make him kiss her lips. That would be her control over him. That would be her game. She couldn't help her smile.

His smirk fell. "What?" he asked, seeing her apparent joy.

"I'll go with you," she said.

"Go where?"

"Everywhere." His eyes bored into hers. "Isn't that the deal? You take me all over and I'll let you _take_ me all over." She smiled at her sexual play on words.

"I thought we'd already agreed to that?"

"Before you weren't giving me a choice. You still aren't, but now I'm at least agreeing to go willingly."

"Good."

"Does that please you?" she asked. "Am I _satisfying_ you by doing that?"

"I prefer you satisfy me in other ways." He leaned down to her neck and began kissing and nipping at her skin.

"I have my limits," she began. "And standards. We're not sixteen. We're not doing this in the back seat of a car."

"Have a little fun," he urged.

"We have a lovely suite waiting for us," she insisted. "We're almost there."

He pulled away from her neck and glared at her. She smiled sweetly before turning her gaze a little sultrier as she glanced again at his lips. He continued to watch her as she leaned forward. He didn't stop her advances which she took as another good sign. She was a paper's width away from his lips.

"Have patience," she whispered.

The car stopped in front of their hotel. The doorman opened the back door on his side but they remained in their current position. The way his eyes were looking at her... There was lust – definitely lust – but she thought she saw a look of distrust as well. It worried her, thinking that maybe he'd figured her game out already. It would be harder to get him to kiss her if he knew that's what she was trying to do. Maybe she had pushed it too far too soon.

He pulled away from her and out of the car in one swift motion. She saw his hand waiting for her to grab when he stood.

"Such the gentleman," she teased when he helped her out of the vehicle.

* * *

Inside the suite, he didn't do much. She thought after their heated flirting he would have already had her on her back within a few minutes. But he walked out onto the terrace and stayed there for a while. She was washing her hands to get the grimy feeling of the observation deck's railings off her when he came to her.

He moved slowly to stand behind her. She watched his reflection in the mirror above the counter as she dried her hands. For the third time that night he moved her hair aside to reach her neck. His warm hands then made their way around to her stomach and hips where they pulled her closer to him. She braced her hands against the cool marble counter as he continued to rub and grope at her body. He pulled far enough away to work the zipper of her dress down her back. He pulled the sleeves on her shoulders down, exposing her lingerie-clad breasts in the mirror. She pulled her arms out of the dress and he let the fabric stay clinging to her hips. His eyes met hers in the mirror and he gave her a devious smile as his hands roamed upward to her chest.

She could feel his erection now pressing against her. He moved a hand back down to her hip and pulled her impossibly closer once more. As soon as he wanted more, he lifted the dress over her head slowly. She turned around, then, and began working his jacket off his shoulders. His hands continued to roam her body so it wasn't an easy deed. When she started working on his belt, he must've gotten the idea and helped her with his clothes and removing what was left of hers.

Her hands stroked him as he became exposed to her. He reached down and lifted her up onto the counter, wrapping her legs around him. He lent down to place wet kisses along her clavicle and upper chest.

"You picked me," she said in a breathy sort of voice. "I think it might have been for more than my obedience."

"You're a good shag," he agreed, his face in her neck.

"You're not so bad," she said with a soft laugh.

"I know." He stood up and loosened her legs around him, preparing himself to enter her. "You've mentioned that before."

"Proper ego stroking." He replaced her hands on his member and guided the tip inside of her. "That's what I'm here for."

"There's the other kind of stroking as well." His cheeky grin made her laugh until he pushed himself completely inside her. Her gasp was loud and she threw her head back. "Don't forget to yell out 'yes' when I have you come."

She laughed and brought her head back down. "If you don't think I can stay quiet, you're sadly mistaken."

"Oh, but I don't want you quiet." He started thrusting slowly. "And that's your job, isn't it? Keep me _satisfied_."

"And yelling will do that?"

"This will be nice and echoey," he said, looking around the room. "Let's make sure the neighbors know we're enjoying ourselves."

He grabbed her hips to move her closer to the edge of the counter. She lifted her knees higher as they gripped his body between them. His thrusts came rougher and faster. But she kept her mouth shut.

Even when her brain became muddled with all the glorious sensations she was feeling – his shaft sliding into her over and over; the feel of his hand against her back, helping her stay upright; the cold marble beneath her bum; his other hand on her breast, his thumb rubbing circles on her; his lips on her chest and at times wrapped around her nipples – she only gasped and kept her moans as throaty groans.

His breathing became heavier. She'd been propped up on the counter by her hands for most of their time together but moved them to be around his neck, pulling closer to him.

"Scream for me," he demanded softly.

She shook her head. He was close, she could tell by his breathing and movements. His hands were rougher as they grabbed at her.

"_Satisfy me_," he groaned as a reminder.

_Stay in control_, she thought. There were certainly other ways to make him happy.

"Oh, God," she whispered.

She gasped in time with his measured thrusts. She brought his head to hers, their foreheads resting against each other.

She licked her lips and moaned, staring at his mouth, hoping he'd noticed. His hand grabbed at her hair and yanked her head back away from him. She thought maybe she'd upset him by making it too intimate, but she glanced at him and noticed he was only so wrapped up in finding his own release. He bent forward so their chests were touching. It was like to couldn't make up his mind on whether he wanted to be close to her or not. His head rest on her shoulder for a moment before leaned further down, pulling her head back by her hair to make it easier for him, and lapped his tongue at her breast.

She bit her lip, desperate to hold back as much noise as possible when she came. He pulled his mouth away from her and used his hands to hold himself over the counter. His release followed hers so quickly she thought maybe he'd been holding it back. And judging by his relieved sighs as he stood between her legs, staying firmly placed inside her for the time being, she wondered if that might have been painful for him.

Once he had calmed down and pulled out of her, he picked her up with her legs still wrapped around his waist. She had to quickly grab at his shoulders to avoid falling back. He walked to the bed and let her fall unceremoniously to the duvet.

"Thanks," she said flatly as she laid back.

He leaned over her, the muscles in his arms straining to keep him as close to her as he could get without touching her.

"You'll sleep here tonight," he said.

He stared her down like he was daring her to deny his command. She nodded slowly. He nodded back at her, then pushed off the bed and walked back into loo. She heard the water of the shower come on.

_You do as you're told_, she thought bitterly. She'd done it again.

She stood quickly from the bed and changed into something slightly more modest than wearing nothing at all. She grabbed the mobile hidden in her bag and flipped the phone open.

_Paris._

Her thumb hesitated over the send button before finally pressing down firm. She didn't want to give herself the chance of changing her own mind. The phone vibrated in her hand after a moment.

_Good girl._

* * *

**I like writing her. I like that she's playing him and he doesn't see it yet (or maybe ever) because he doesn't think she could be ****_that_**** clever.**

**What do you think of her alliance with Sherlock? Good? Bad? Will he save her? Will she want to be saved? Will Moriarty find out? Will we ever learn her real name? Where will he take her next? What character on the show would you like to see written into this story?**

**Review with your answers and any questions, comments, or concerns you may have!**

**Thanks so much for all your wonderful support! Until next time... Tah!**


	8. Chapter 8

She woke up the next morning wrapped up in the fluffiest and softest bedding she'd ever experienced. Her eyes vehemently protested her brain's arousing. She pulled the duvet tighter around her shoulders and willed herself back to sleep.

"You steal the covers," his bored voice droned to her left.

She sighed heavily.

"Which works out well, actually," he pondered. "I normally overheat under all that weight. I tend to kick everything off me anyway."

She heard the clinking of a cup against a saucer. Confused as to why that sound was so close to her, she lifted her head and craned her neck to see over the mound of puffy white fabric. He was perched on the side of the bed with a small trolley holding their morning coffee and croissants.

"Café au lait?" he offered her.

"I told you I don't drink it," she grumbled, turning back to the comfort of the bed.

"You should. You look like you could use it."

She sighed again and decided drifting off to sleep was probably impossible now that he knew she was awake. She stood from the bed, noticing how his eyes followed her. She bent forward at the waist to stretch and then pull her hair into a bun.

"Anything you want to tell me?" he asked knowingly.

She paused. _Sherlock_, she thought immediately. He knew. How did he find out so quickly? Did he find the phone?

"What do you mean?" she asked slowly, trying to sound more like she was confused by his question rather than terrified and guilty.

He set his cup down on the trolley and sat back against the headboard of the bed.

"You have a very peculiar set of scars," he hinted.

Her defenses dropped immediately. Good, he didn't know about Sherlock, then.

"Oh, that," she said plainly.

"Yes, that. What did you think I was talking about?"

"I really couldn't tell you."

And really, she couldn't.

She walked to the bathroom and splashed some water on her face.

"Are they branding you girls at the clubs, now?" he asked, still not letting it go.

"No," she scoffed. She grabbed her toothbrush and ran it under the faucet before adding paste. "Even Management wasn't that cruel."

"So who did it then?"

He got up from his spot on the bed and walked behind her. She was reminded of how their sex began the night before. He lifted her shirt to expose the scars on her lower back, just over her right kidney. She leaned forward to spit the foam from her mouth. He made a face in disgust.

"Lovely," he muttered. It bothered her. Was she not supposed to brush her teeth? Was she not supposed to do it like everyone else? Did he want her to swallow it instead? How the bloody hell did he do it, then?

"Who do you think?" she asked with more force than was probably necessary. "The other girls."

"So it's like a rite of passage? You sleep with me and you get my initials carved into you?"

She rinsed her mouth and toothbrush then stood to face him.

"I was hardly willing."

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his shoulder against the door frame, blocking her way out.

"That's what the girls do to each other? They hold each other down and cut?"

He began to smile like he found it humourous.

"I never saw it happen to anyone else. I think I was special because I got picked for you." She smiled tightly.

"What of the others?"

So there were others at her club.

"If you were ever with any of the other girls there, no one else but them knew about it. They wouldn't have known about me if _you_ hadn't shown up that night," she accused.

"So that's my fault?" he asked, pointing to her lower abdomen.

He pushed off the wall and stepped around her, lifting her shirt again to examine the damaged flesh. She looked to the mirror to view the reflection. The archaic letters were drawn in straight lines; a total of six slashes made up his initials - _JM_. She remembered the skin being opened and reopened every night as she waited for her payout.

It was so annoyingly smart of the girls to mar her skin like that. Something permanent such as that would keep her from performing. She actually had to hide those particular wounds from Management each night when they saw her battered form before sending her home. If they knew she would have scarring they could have fired her (or un-enslaved might be a more apt wording) for having a defect that could prevent her from making money on stage. What man would want to see letters carved into a woman like that?

She found her answer as she looked up to his reflection and saw the slight look of admiration.

"They could have done a better job," he said finally. He traced the marred skin with his finger. "I suppose it's a nice reminder though."

"Of all the good times?" she asked sarcastically.

"With me," he finished.

He let her shirt fall back into place and stepped around her.

"Did it hurt?" He watched her eyes intently as she answered.

"At first."

"But then it didn't?"

"I got used to it."

He smiled again. She remembered the pain the first time the blade cut through her. Every time after that had hurt a little less until eventually she could hardly feel it. It took so long for it to heal after she bought out.

"Why haven't you asked about it before?" she asked, curious.

"I only just saw it last night when I was shagging you in front of this mirror."

_Stayin' alive. Stayin' alive. Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Stayin' alive!  
_  
His amused expression dropped immediately at the interruption. He turned quickly to retrieve his phone off the nightstand.

"Hello?" he greeted. His eyes locked on hers suddenly before he pivoted and hurried out onto the terrace where she couldn't hear his conversation.

She slowly dressed for the day and freshened up her makeup. She turned in front of the mirror to view her scars. She'd pushed them out of her mind for so long. She actively ignored them. She'd gotten so used to pretending that they didn't exist, she'd completely forgotten that they were visible to others. He seemed so pleased with them. It made her stomach churn to picture his adoring gaze on them.

He swept back into their suite, his housecoat billowing behind him. He was light on his feet - clearly he'd received some good news. He picked up the newspaper by his cup of coffee and opened it to a particular page. He beamed at the paper, folded it back up, and tossed it onto their unmade bed.

"It's going to be a good day," he deemed, sipping the remnants of his coffee. "Be ready to leave in an hour."

She looked down at herself; she was ready. He walked around her and shut himself in the loo. She waited for him on the sofa.

* * *

He led her through the streets on foot. There were times when they had to quickly cross a road or pass through a large crowd and in those moments he would grab her hand and pull her along behind him.

It bothered her. It made her skin crawl. His hands were too rough against hers. Funny, she'd always thought they were so smooth when they were caressing her body. She had a thought that maybe she wouldn't have been so disgusted with the brief physical contact he was initiating if she could only get the image of his satisfied smirk while seeing her scars out of her mind. Her jaw clenched at the touches and her insides were screaming. She thought wildly of Sherlock. Maybe she'd gotten in over her head. Maybe she shouldn't have been so willing to travel with him. Maybe Sherlock would get her out.

He brought her to a café where they were seated at a small, outdoor table. He ordered for her, which hadn't bothered her the night before but now she couldn't help thinking it was incredibly overbearing.

"So go on, then," he encouraged as he sipped his coffee. "Let's hear your story."

"My story?" she asked, confused.

"Yes. You know, how you ended up at the club. How's a young, gorgeous little thing like you end up with the likes of me?" He smiled like the Cheshire Cat.

She stared hard at him for a long pause.

"It's not worth going into it," she finally deflected.

"Oh," he groaned. "Come on."

He leaned forward and grabbed her hand off the table, staring at it while his idle fingers played with hers. She thought of how they might look to a passerby - like a couple, most likely.

"Tell me your story."

It was a soft plea, an earnest plea. It was not a tone that should be coming from him. It was deadly. _He_ was deadly; he shouldn't be able to sound so sweet and concerned.

"It's a bit of a cliché, I'm afraid," she gave in.

"How so?"

She huffed in frustration. She couldn't believe she was actually telling him.

"I ran away with a boy."

He smiled and lifted his eyes to hers, waiting to hear more. She jerked her hand back from his.

"And were your parents devastated?" he asked. She could only _just_ hear the mocking tone he used.

"I didn't care. My mum died when I was ten. Dad's a drunk. I had a brother but he joined the army when I was sixteen and I haven't seen him since."

He nodded, absorbing all she was offering. "And the boy you ran away with?"

"A complete wanker, of course." She rolled her eyes as she thought of her ex. She stared down at her hands on the table as she continued. "He sold drugs. He was older. I thought he was just...the _coolest_ thing." She noticed one of his hands rise to let his chin rest in its palm as he leaned closer a bit more. "Anyway he got promoted, I guess. He dealt for an organization sort of thing, and one day they told him they wanted him to head up a drug smuggling operation. And after a little success with that, they told him to move to China to work with their antiquities smuggling."

Moriarty stiffened at the mention of China but she didn't notice.

"And you went with him?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I thought I loved him. And he was saying he loved me. I thought it was romantic and adventurous." She laughed darkly. "It's hard to have a loving and trusting relationship when you're heading up a criminal operation though."

"How did you get to the club from there?" he asked.

She felt like he was rushing her. He only wanted the abridged story of her life, then. He should have said something.

"When we got to China I started doing some work with the organization to earn my keep. After a little while the boy and I broke up and he moved me to another division to keep me away from him. I was basically a housemaid for one of the bosses. And I didn't mind that because it was much quieter than smuggling. Then I was asked one day if I'd like to go back to England and make more money by dancing and I said yes." She tapped her fingers a couple of times on the white table linen. "That's how I ended up at the club."

"So they were good to you in China?" he asked. She thought it was a strange question. "You weren't abused?"

"I wouldn't say I was always wanted there," she answered. "I was yelled at and slapped a few times. I had always had a loud mouth. I didn't always think before I spoke and over there, you know, especially in that business women aren't meant to give opinions. Especially not housemaids. It took a little while for me to learn that. I couldn't talk much if I wanted to stay safe."

And now that she was thinking about it that was probably one of the reasons she never opened up with the girls at the club. If you talk you get beaten; that was what she had learned.

"Still, I had it better than a lot of women. They had sex slaves, you know. These poor girls were kept in horrible conditions and only ever brought out to be raped. It was terrible to see. I was happy to leave."

It wasn't lost on her that she was something of a sex slave, herself. The girls were kept for the main purpose of pleasing whatever man Management - or often times, she suspected, Moriarty - saw fit. The girls at the clubs were at least given incentive, though. Payouts were often substantial.

Their food arrived and they ate in silence. When their empty plates were taken away and they were waiting for their bill, she leaned forward, wondering a few things, herself.

"How did you pick me?"

"I already told you why," he replied absentmindedly as he checked his mobile.

"Yes, but _how?_ Was I random? Did you just have Management pick someone for you?"

"Of course not," he scoffed, finally looking at her. "I always hand pick whoever I'm with."

She sat back in her chair, annoyed by how flattered she felt.

"How?" she asked again.

"All in good time, my dear." He smiled softly.

The server brought their bill and he quickly paid. He ushered them across the street where they met a man with a plain, white shopping bag. The man left without a word after handing the bag over to him. Moriarty dug through the bag and pulled out a familiar looking box.

"Your new iPhone," he said as he handed it to her.

She opened the lid to find a pristine phone. It was white - she would have preferred black, but she wasn't going to argue.

"And tablet," he continued, pulling out the larger box of an iPad.

"Trying to buy my affections?" she asked jokingly.

"Is that any different than what I've been doing?" he asked with a light tap to her wrist where her new watch rested. He had a point.

He took the phone from her after placing the tablet back in the bag. He quickly typed in some numbers and pressed send. His ringtone began to sound from inside his jacket.

"This is for you to be able to get a hold of me and me you. You will have it on you at all times," he ordered plainly. "You are not to give your number to anyone else. Understand?" She nodded. "Also," he continued, "I know how simple people like to capture memories for...sentiment or something..." He showed her the phone's camera application and handed it back to her. "So for all the sightseeing you'll be doing…."

She was speechless. It was actually sort of sweet of him to think of that. She took off the protective plastic that lay across the screen. She picked a spot down the street and focused on an innocuous street lamp.

"No, no," he said quickly. "Come on." Again, his hand grabbed one of hers and he pulled her behind him as they walked through the city a short while. He pulled her around a building and the Arc de Triomphe came into view. "You're sightseeing, remember? Don't waste your time taking pictures of things that don't matter."

Her hands rose, holding the phone and focusing in on the iconic landmark.

"No, not like that," he corrected. "Never have the horizon in the center of the screen." He stepped behind her to see the screen better over her shoulder. His hand wrapped around hers and tilted the view downward to get rid of much of the blue sky. "There," he said softly next to her ear. She snapped the picture and stepped away from him.

"Bonjour," a small voice called from behind them. They both turned to see an elderly couple standing directly behind them. The man spoke soft French. She didn't understand his words, but he pointed to the phone in her hands and then to the Arc now behind them.

"He wants to take our picture," he told her.

"English?" the man asked. "We lived in Surrey for a few years," he said with a thick accent. "Would you like me to take your picture?" he asked again.

"Oh, goodness," Moriarty exclaimed with such an earnest sweetness she caught herself staring at him like he'd grown another head. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you!"

He grabbed the mobile from her hands and passed it to the man.

"Young love," the woman commented and nodded at them.

Before she could protest, the man had stepped back to get a better angle of the two of them with the Arc behind them. His arm went around her shoulders and he pulled her close to his chest. She could feel a vague smile forming on her lips as the picture was taken.

"That's the trick of going on holiday just the two of you; no one around to take pictures of you both together," the old man said. He handed the device back.

Moriarty's whole persona had changed. He was completely different person; somewhat bashful, polite, and animated. She tried not to seem so thrown by it.

"Well, thank you so much," he said. "That was so kind of you. Bless you."

She wanted to laugh. He was the last person that should be blessing people. A blessing from James Moriarty was certainly empty.

"Cherish her," the man said, inclining his head toward her. "The years go by faster than you would think possible." He looked then with sad eyes to the woman whose mind seemed to have drifted, her eyes far away.

"I will." His arm made its way back around her shoulders as he flashed her a charming smile.

The men spoke French for a moment. She watched the woman watching the people passing by and the clouds above. She seemed confused and it saddened her to see such loss in someone's eyes. Growing old always appeared to be such a struggle.

The older couple eventually left them and he turned back into his usually, slightly stoic self.

"You're terrifying," she remarked as she stepped away from him again.

"So I've been told."

"Thanks for this," she said, gesturing to the mobile.

"Thanks for being willing. It's much more of a hassle having to drag someone around," he said offhandedly.

He rubbed his thumb and index finger at the corners of his mouth as he watched some of the tourists taking photographs near them. It reminded her of her challenge to herself. She was supposed to be working on getting him to kiss her.

What had she gotten herself into?


	9. Chapter 9

He checked his phone a lot that afternoon. He was becoming more and more irritated as time passed. What was supposed to be a good day according to him was quickly turning sour. Around the time he finally pulled her back to the hotel suite he received a phone call. His anger made her shake. Her heart raced. Her eyes were wide as she watched him, nervous that he might take his anger out on her.

"Listen to me," he hissed into his mobile."Your excuses don't matter to me. You had your deadline and you've MISSED IT!" She jumped at his sudden yell. "We will be there in three hours. _You_ will be there with the package." He was pacing at the foot of the bed with his right hand was clenched in a fist. "If it is not finished, if you utter any sort of excuse...I will pull off your fingernails and shove them one by one into your EYEBALLS!" He ended the phone call and threw the mobile forcibly onto the soft mattress. He stuffed his fists into his eyes; his back was to her, hunched over.

She nervously made her way to the bathroom as quietly as she could. He spotted her movements - maybe he heard her, maybe he had eyes in the back of his head, or maybe he was just psychic - and turned abruptly to face her. She didn't bother to look at him, instead making her last few steps count, she rushed inside and slammed the door shut. He was right behind her by the time she got the door closed. She heaved her weight against the wood and locked it with hurried fingers. Carefully, she lifted her weight off the barricade and took a step back, keeping her palms flat against the door still.

"What?" he asked loudly in confusion. "What's wrong?"

She wanted to laugh. Actually she wanted to cry. Maybe dig a hole in the floor and escape - climb out of a window or something.

He was going to kill her.

He was evil. He was ruthless. She would do something one day to upset him and it would be her fingernails in _her_ eyes. How did she think she could live like this? How did she think she would be okay? It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours since she'd agreed to travel around with him and she was already wishing she hadn't.

He was surely going to kill her one day.

"Why have you locked yourself in there?" he asked. The door handle jiggled as he tried to turn it.

"I'm not feeling well," she answered. It was true - she felt like she might vomit.

She could hear his exasperated sigh.

"You have impeccable timing, then. Tell me, was it something I said?" he inquired, mockingly.

She remained silent. She leaned her forehead against to cold door, letting it calm her. Her heart was still racing.

"Darling, you'll need thicker skin if you're to be my live-in."

"I want some sort of reassurance," she began. "I want you to promise me you won't kill me. I want your word that one day I'll get to walk away from all this."

"We're hardly there yet." His voice seemed to travel away from the door. "Come out and we'll discuss your cowardliness."

"It's called self-preservation!" she argued.

"No, it's called being dramatic. If I wanted you dead you'd be dead. You're safe so long as you can serve a purpose and you certainly aren't able to serve your purpose locked up in the loo."

"And after you've had enough of me?" she asked, unsure. "When the day comes that you get bored of me...?"

"It's not in the immediate future," he said. His voice was close again, and it sounded like he was smiling. It was probably that awful annoying charming smile he does. "Don't worry about what might not ever come."

"Well, I'm sorry but I don't believe you. We're not exactly the 'happily ever after' types."

"Well maybe not you..." he joked. "Come out of there."

"I told you I don't feel well."

"I won't shove anyone's fingernails into anyone's eyeballs..." he pretended to promise.

"Can't you just leave me be for a while?"

"'Fraid not, my dear. I gave Franco three hours; I wouldn't want to unintentionally give him anymore time than he deserves."

"And where are we going now?"

"If you come out of there I'll tell you," he wagered.

Again, she said nothing.

"I won't hurt you," he said, his voice suddenly very sincere. She wasn't sure she could trust it. "Claire..." he called softly when she still didn't answer.

She slowly unlocked the door. It was against her better judgement, but she couldn't stay in there forever.

He opened the door slowly. His eyes looked to hers, warily. He moved with such grace, like she was a deer he was afraid to startle. His hands came to rest on her arms, squeezing them gently.

"I lose my temper," he admitted. "I have a very short fuse; but I know who to direct my anger towards. You're not it." He paused for a moment, taking in her expression. "Look at you!" he exclaimed, his face breaking out in what appeared to be a sincere smile. "You're like a frightened little lamb!"

He pulled her forward into his chest and wrapped his arms around her. He was hugging her. Again, she felt the sensation of skin-crawling disgust at his touch. Then she took a breath, inhaling his cologne and it soothed her oddly enough. She felt her posture relax into him. Unbearable loathing to comfort - how was that even possible? She was beginning to think there might be something supernatural about him.

He pulled back and grabbed her upper arms again.

"Come on, now," he urged. "You need to pack up your things. We're leaving soon."

"To go where?" she asked quietly.

"We have to make a quick stop in Italy before moving on to Morocco. "

"What's a quick stop?"

"We won't leave the airfield."

She packed quickly, doing her best to keep the mobile Sherlock has snuck in her pocket hidden. The new clothes he had bought her did not fit in her duffle with no major surprise. What did shock her was him allowing her to use some extra space in a few of his luggage bags.

* * *

He wanted to fool around on the plane ride to Italy. They were alone in the cabin with the pilots shut behind the door of the cockpit. However, after the days events, she really wasn't in the mood. Instead of rebuffing him completely and risking his anger, she worked him with her hand. He leaned back in the plush leather of the seat next to her and had her free his erection from his trousers. She could tell he was looking at her while she worked and she avoided his eyes for as long as she could. When she shifted closer to him so as to relieve some strain on her arm, he lifted one if his hands and forced her head so her gaze would turn to his. His heavy, hooded eyes and the way his lips were parted slightly, his shallow breaths softly coming out of them, was a bit of a turn on. And that bothered her to no end. His hand fell to her shirt and he tugged the front of it down, exposing more of her cleavage to him. His gaze dropped to her breast and his tongue poked out to wet his drying lips.

"Kiss me," he demanded hoarsely. His eyes flashed back up to hers.

Her mind went blank at his unexpected order. Her eyes wide, her hand continuing to glide over his shaft on it own accord...this wasn't how it was supposed to happen. _He_ was supposed to kiss _her. _us plan. It was her genius plan. It was her way of combatting his controlling nature.

But what was she up to? She'd denied him intercourse only moments before. Would she even survive another refusal?

Pushing her luck, she leant forward slowly. His eyes, heavy with arousal, watched as she neared him. He focus dropped to her lips and she felt a surge of excitement and power. Instead of her lips connecting with his, she bent her head down and latched onto his neck. He groaned as she pulled some of his skin between her teeth. She moved her moth to his ear.

"You told me before no kissing on the lips," she whispered.

"That was before," he said softly. He turned his face to see her. The action brought their lips much closer than they ever had before. "Live-ins have different rules."

"Even so," she said. "We're not there yet."

"Why's that?"

_Because you still creep the hell out of me._

"You were bad earlier."

Yeah, that was better. Always a good idea to play the seductress.

He let out a deep chuckle. "I'm always bad, dear."

She found that he actually really enjoyed her mouth on his skin which was a bit thrilling. She continued to nip and suck at his neck and ear until he quietly came into a paper napkin with a happy sigh.

"Satisfied?" she asked with only a hint of snark as he /had/ told her that was her purpose.

"For the moment," he replied. "I plan on having you roughly when we arrive in Morocco. That will do better for me."

"How, happy to help," she said sarcastically.

"I'll make sure you enjoy it as well," he assured her.

* * *

**Please review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter flashes forward quite a bit. I wanted to do something a bit different. I know it's short but I think this is a cool addition to the story. Please let me know what you all think of it in a review! The next chapter will pick up where Nine left off.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

He rushed out of the hotel lobby into the street. Frantically, he searched for her. He craned his neck to peer over those walking on the sidewalk, looking for her face, the back of her hair...at this point he could probably even recognize her by her arse. But he didn't see her. She wasn't there.

He pulled out his mobile, quickly dialing her number. He turned to stare up at the building behind him, thinking wildly that maybe she had climbed out of a window or something. But no. There were no fire escapes to climb out onto. She would have surely fallen to her death.

"The person you are trying to reach..." The voicemail picked up.

"Damn it, woman!" he groaned. She was always supposed to answer her phone. That was a rule. She'd never not answered it before.

Maybe he was over reacting. Maybe he had just missed her inside and now she was looking for him.

No. He knew.

He dialed another number in his phone.

"She's gone," he said, his tone hard. "You find her, Moran. You bring her back to me!"

Where could she have gone so quickly? Why would she run?

Again, he knew. He never should have brought her here. This was the one place he'd been avoiding going with her. He'd become complacent with her, though. Two years of travel and sex could do that, he supposed, even to him. He had trusted her.

He was a fool.

* * *

Twelve hours later and he was standing on the outskirts of the city. It wasn't a very lavish part of town so his screaming rants were going unnoticed. There had been no word. There was no trace of her. She had vanished, according to his men.

"You've never let me down before, Moran," he said into the phones receiver. His words sounding more like a threat than just a mere observation.

"I'll keep looking," the gruff voice on the other line said evenly. He wasn't nervous. He kept a cool head - it was one of the reasons Moriarty liked working with him.

What was she thinking? He racked his brain desperately, trying to determine what he had missed. She'd been uneasy coming here, but that had made sense. He'd thought he'd done the right thing; he'd comforted her. He'd bought her expensive jewelry. He'd even gone as far as apologizing for asking her to be there! What the hell had happened?

His phone began vibrating in his hand. He looked at the screen, not recognizing the number. He almost decided to ignore it, but picked it up anyway.

"What?" he asked irritably. Whatever client was calling him now was surely going to regret it.

At first there was no sound from the other end. He was about to hang up when he heard a choked sob.

"Hello?"

His heart was now hammering ridiculously in his chest.

"Claire?" he called hopefully.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I so, so sorry. _Please_."

Was she alone? Did someone have her? His blood pounded in his ears at the thought. Whoever had the gall to take his pet from him clearly had no idea who they were dealing with.

"Where are you?" he asked with steel determination.

"_Please_. I'm so sorry. Please don't kill me. Please don't look for me." Her words were so broken up with her cries and gasps he hardly understood her.

She wasn't taken. His original assumption had been correct. She'd run away from him.

"Claire, you tell me where you are _right now!_"

"Please let me go. You have to let me go."

"This wasn't a decision for you to make yourself! You tell me where you are, or so help me, Claire, I _will_ find you! And you will not be happy when I do."

"Don't threaten me!" Even with her obvious emotional state she still stood up to him when he pushed her too much. "I know _everything_ about _everything_ you do! I could _ruin_ you."

"You'd be dead before you got a word out," he countered. "This is dangerous business, Claire. You should know better than to toy with me."

"That's why I had to leave." Her voice softened a little. "I'm tired, Jim."

_Jim_. His heart may have actually stilled for a moment. She never called him that. Not once.

"I don't want to do this anymore." And she actually did sound fairly exhausted. "I just want to live. Please, just let me go. Don't come looking for me."

"We could have arranged something. You went about this the wrong way."

"I tried talking to you about this last month. You walked out, remember?"

"You were supposed to stay with me!" he suddenly yelled. "You were supposed to be here!"

Had he really become so sentimental? So pathetic?

"Let me go, darling," she said softly. "It'll be better for us both. You'll get yourself another live-in; maybe even one who's not so nosey."

"I'll find you," he promised. The threat was only partially there now.

"No, dear. You really won't." She sighed. "Goodbye, Jim."

"Claire -!" The phone beeped, letting him now she'd hung up. He quickly sent the number to Moran, hoping he'd trace it fast enough to get some of his men to the area before she slipped too far away.

His pulse still pounding in his ear as his hands started to shake. It was a cold night.

He pulled the pistol out from his back and emptied the magazine into the side of the car he had driven out there. He could hear a dog barking in the distance as the echoes of the gunshots started to die down. His throat felt raw. He hadn't realized he'd been screaming as he was pulling the trigger.

She would have hated to see him do that. It was needlessly throwing money away, she would have said. He took in the bullet holes in the passenger side door, damaging what was a fairly spectacular looking sports car.

What the hell was he going to do now?


End file.
